Chapter 1: The Salaryman's End
The relentless buzz of an alarm clock shattered the predawn silence of a cramped Tokyo apartment. Satoru Fujimoto, a man in his mid-thirties, groaned as he reached out to silence the intrusive sound. His body ached from the lack of sleep, a constant companion in his life as a salaryman.
Satoru's day began as it always did, with a quick shower, a reheated breakfast, and a hurried glance at the stack of documents he'd brought home from the office. The documents were a stark reminder of his reality—a reality dominated by the oppressive demands of his employer, a notorious 'black company' known for exploiting its workers.
As he rode the packed morning train, Satoru's mind wandered to the endless cycle of overtime, the missed social gatherings, and the vacations he never took. The company had promised growth and opportunity, but all it delivered was a suffocating workload that drained his spirit.
At the office, the fluorescent lights flickered on, casting a sterile glow over the sea of cubicles. Satoru's desk was buried under piles of reports, each marked with urgent deadlines. His colleagues, faces etched with fatigue, were already typing away, their keystrokes a monotonous symphony of resignation.
"**Fujimoto-san, we need the Thompson account reconciled by noon,**" his manager barked, dropping another file onto the mountain of paperwork. "**And don't forget the client meeting at three. You'll need to prepare the presentation as well.**"
Satoru nodded, a sense of helplessness washing over him. The demands were unreasonable, the expectations unattainable. Yet, he knew resistance was futile. In the world of the black company, you either conformed or you found yourself cast out, jobless and adrift.
Lunchtime offered no respite. Satoru ate at his desk, a convenience store bento box his only solace. He watched from the corner of his eye as younger employees were reprimanded for minor mistakes, their apologies a low murmur against the clacking keyboards.
As the day wore on, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the office remained ablaze with artificial light. Satoru's fingers flew across the keyboard, but the work never seemed to diminish. He glanced at the clock—**11 PM**. Another day had passed, and he was no closer to freedom.
It was then, in the quiet solitude of the night, that Satoru felt a strange sensation—a feeling as if the very fabric of reality was tearing at the seams. The office around him began to blur, the sounds of typing and ringing phones fading into a distant echo.
And in that moment, Satoru Fujimoto's world went black.
When he awoke, it was not to the familiar confines of his apartment or the droning of his alarm. Instead, he found himself under a sky painted with unfamiliar stars, the air filled with the scent of earth and foliage. His body felt different, stronger, and when he looked down, he saw not the suit and tie of a salaryman, but the rugged attire of a village lord.
The end of Satoru's life as a salaryman had come. But unbeknownst to him, the beginning of something extraordinary was just on the horizon.
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